Heartache


A heart is a fragile thing to hold
and it kills me seeing yours in her clutches,
feebly struggling to beat even as it grows cold.

Tales of pain like this are so often told
that the moral of love seems like nothing so much as
"A heart is a fragile thing to hold."

And my own heart withers as yours of gold
suffers for the sake of her clawed caresses,
feebly struggling to beat even as it grows cold.

The love you give her she's already sold,
tossing it away for another's touches,
though your heart is a fragile thing to hold.

Your pain tells me you don't have to be told;
your heart, which hoped she could rise above this, is
feebly struggling to beat even as it grows cold.

How I hate watching you be pushed and pulled,
your sweet soul left battered and loveless;
a heart is a fragile thing to hold,
feebly struggling to beat even as it grows cold.

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